Gals & Guns
by Spyre
Summary: Would someone like Sky really give up such an all-encompassing lifestyle cold-turkey? Would that life even let him try? Sky/OFC.


**Part One**

**Rockin' the Boat**

He was beaten in a number of ways, on many levels. The blackness washed into his mind like a wave, its thundering sound deafening him from the words of his captors for an indiscernible amount of time before rolling back to reveal consciousness once more, a pain-filled existence – sharp pains, dull pains, deep bruises and tears, burning pains from salt and fire. They spared no creative thought on him. Then the black tsunami returned, offering respite from his torture.

How long had it been since he'd been jumped in the bar? They hadn't wanted his money. They worked for someone, someone he'd embarrassed eons ago when he'd made stupid bets with the wrong people. He could barely remember his name right now. It wouldn't be long… till… it was over for him. He felt pity for Sarah, his wife. He felt sad for her. She'd known who he was but, still, she'd married him. The biggest gamble a woman could make.

Maybe that's why they'd gotten along so well in the beginning. Despite her matrimonial leap of faith, gambling wasn't her life. And now, she was the victim. Not him. He marveled at that for a second, in the twilight between pain and unconsciousness. How could he feel so much empathy for her when he was the one present, bleeding? He thought he heard himself laugh once, weakly, and then he felt himself die.

Would marrying the right one change a man so completely? How blind would she be to his vices? The man loved to gamble. Could her religion allow for that kind of sin in such close proximity? He knew no other life. And how much of a part had his immorality played in her attraction to him? A whole lot. She was a loyal sort, through and through. A faithful woman for her man.

So, when she suggested quitting the mission completely, to become the fertile ground a woman should be for her husband, he did not encourage her as much as he could have. He loved her for her purity, her uprightness - her ignorance of his world. He admired it. He coveted it. It was good for him, to know such innocence existed and that he possessed it.

But he wasn't ready to be a father, yet. It wasn't what he wanted or needed. He had the token wife, the touchstone. He supposed the kids came with the deal... eventually. Every dame wants babies, but he knew enough to understand - babies changed women. And she'd be more sensitive to his habits if children were involved. For the moment, the boat was sailing smoothly and he didn't want it rocked. He had it all.

After his marriage, the impulses to gamble, the risks seemed to glitter as fervently as they ever had. An integral part of who he was.

He didn't lie to her, not exactly. He simply allowed her to believe he had changed. And after nesting for a few months, he left for Atlanta, Georgia on a "business trip". He didn't go into specifics and wonderfully enough, she didn't probe.

It seemed she was sobering up lately, coming to terms with who she married. But she was sobering up in a way a businessman would after a weekend of festivities and celebration. She was married to a criminal. So, as an innocent woman would reason through, she thought kids would settle him. His answer was, "Too soon."

Also, she was the type of doll that didn't expect or want expensive things. And wouldn't she be suspicious if he showered her with jewels and furs anyway? How naive was she really? To believe his earnings were on the up and up?

What had she gotten herself into? He asked the question of himself a lot, mostly with a smirk on his face. She was his now. There was no turning back. She'd walked into the lion's den and he had to appreciate her courage. As for what HE had gotten himself into... he wasn't too worried. He was in control. Right.

He woke up. He, the dead man, woke up… to a warm breeze and sunlight. And that thundering sound, waves – not in his head. The cry of a gull or two. And slowly, to the pulsing pain. He was alive.

Gray eyes opened, gummed up by sleep and… tears? Anger filled him, but even that was an effort. He was in a room he did not recognize. White walls. White furniture. Butter-colored curtains and an old quilt over his naked body. He lifted a hand to push away the quilt. The background pain came to the forefront. His shoulder was on fire. He groaned and felt dizzy.

There was a glass of water on an in-table beside his bed. His thirst roared to life.

Questions aside for the moment, pain stubbornly ignored, he attempted to reach for the glass. Sucked in a breath as his body protested with a shocking vehemence he'd never known before. He found his anger once again and used it, successfully retrieving the glass. It spilled more than a little. He grimaced and forced himself towards the goal of drinking the damned water. A simple task, he told himself. He was not an invalid.

His mouth was papery, and there wasn't enough water to satisfy him. But, he was alive. He could feel every part of his body waking… had his legs, had all of his fingers. Lady Luck had smiled on him.

Exhausted, he relaxed back into the pillow and mattress. He didn't have the energy to return the glass to the table. He fell asleep to the sound of the ocean outside.

Nightmare. He awoke with a coughing fit that brought him more pain. It was deep into the night. The darkness was cut by a single lamp in the corner of the small bedroom, casting stark shadows with its welcome light. The doors were still thrown open and the wind was stronger than it had been when he was last awake. It felt like a storm was brewing outside. The glass of water was no longer in his hand, but full again and on the in-table, along with a bowl of buttered bread and fried bacon.

His eyes swept from the food back to the open doors. Movement.

She stood just out of the light watching him. It was a surprise to find him with the empty glass earlier. The willpower it had to have taken to do such a thing with his injuries impressed her. At least now, he could go relieve himself without her having to wipe his ass.

She stepped forward off of the veranda and under the arch of the doorframe, into the quasi light of the bedroom. He visibly tensed at the sight of her.

She was wearing a pair of men's boots and slack pants, cinched up by a belt. As for her upper body, she wore a sleeveless, cotton work shirt – thin – no brazier. She was also wearing an occupied shoulder holster and two clips. Her hair was long and curly, pulled away from her tan, unreadable face.

It was possibly the oddest thing he'd ever seen in his life.

"Who're you?" he rasped out.

"I'm here to make sure you get better, make sure no one gets to you while things get sorted out."

She waited. He thought through her words, felt silly to just lie there, talking to a strange woman who was carrying a firearm. Still, she hadn't really answered his question.

"Who do you work for?" he managed. He wanted to sit up.

"Someone who likes you alive. It's better for you the less you know at this point. You are still in danger. And if you manage to get captured again, I wouldn't want my employer to be implicated in your initial escape."

"You… rescued me?" his voice held as much disbelief as he felt, "There were five guys…" he began to cough and went quiet as the pain overrode his curiosity for the moment. He was suddenly aware of his exhaustion.

"Focus on getting better. There's nothing more to talk about anyway. I'm down the hall if you get scared."

And before he could work up a retort, she walked out of the bedroom door and disappeared around the corner in what he assumed was the hallway. A few minutes of silence passed.

What about Sarah? The thought came all of a sudden, like lightening to an unsuspecting tree. He sat up and immediately regretted it. His head swam and the agony was nearly unbearable. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and fell forward onto the wooden floorboards with a loud thud. He managed to struggle to his knees before the strange woman returned.

"What the hell are you doing?" she was mad.

"Sarah…" was all he could manage. His vision swam.

"She's safer without you. Greggs doesn't know you're married. If you contact her, she's as good as dead. Especially after you thwarted his plans for your demise by escaping."

She stood over him with her hands on her hips for a moment before she shook her head.

He was out of his mind. She took off her shoulder holster, laid it on a dresser out of his reach. It was only then that she helped him up and back into bed. He was already unconscious when she pulled the quilt up over his chest.

His strong body was covered with purple blossoms, bruises running along almost every part of him. His face was just as bad. Luckily enough, his eyes were both still intact. He was going to be a stubborn one. And from his reputation, she'd expected no less.

He woke up more than a day later, to a blue sunrise. He felt slightly better today. But when he went to reach for the glass of water on the in-table, he felt different. His ankle snagged on something. He tugged it a little despite the protestations of his abused muscles. Metal shackles clanked on the brass rail of the bed and bit a little into his ankle. He looked all around. There was a note taped to the bowl of bread and sausage on the night stand.

"Just in case you decided to do something stupid. Sarah's safe with family. I will be back later."

He was angry. He brooded for an hour before breaking down and drinking the water. He tried the food tentatively and found he was starving.

All the time, he wondered. She'd said something was being sorted out. What was that exactly? And where exactly was Sarah and how much did she know? Who did this female bodyguard work for? For how long would he have to be in hiding?

The blue sunrise gave way to a pink early morning which darkened into a platinum storm that kept his dark thoughts company. He decided, finally, he would focus on getting better, and he would get as much information as he could.

He didn't even hear her come in, but he saw her go straight for the French doors and close them against the growing violence of the storm. She turned the lamp on and approached him, looking at him as if he were a dog in a window or a bird in a cage.

"The restraint was a nice touch," he commented offhandedly.

"Necessary," was all she said before she pulled back the covers to reveal his naked, battered body.

He wasn't one to blush. He only raised an eyebrow. What kind of dame was this?

She inspected him rather coldly. She covered him back up as she asked, "How do you feel? Any dizziness?"

"Only when I sit up," he answered, watching her closely, trying to pinpoint her accent, "Where've you been all day? Saving more hoods from certain death?"

"You're not a hood," she smirked in a condescending way that he found incredibly… annoying.

"Where's Sarah?" he couldn't stop the question. He was worried for her.

She met his eyes with hers, green and icy in their impersonal consideration, "She's safe. With her mother and two brothers."

"Why is she there? What does she think's happened?"

"It's best if you forget her for a while."

"I'm not going to forget my wife! I want to know," he interrupted in an emphatic tone.

She smirked again, but irritation lurked there, "You're one to be demanding things."

"You don't think I'm grateful? I am," he insisted. His spirit was rankored, "But she's all the good I've got. I have to know she's safe, for sure."

It was a strange feeling to be so passionate about something other than gambling. He felt at odds with himself, frustrated at his inability to act.

"I'm not going to argue with you. But it seems you want to argue. I don't want to keep you cuffed to that bed. I need you to understand that you are safer… that your wife is safest… with you here. As long as Greggs has no idea she exists, she's safe."

She made sense. She'd made sense the first time she'd said it. He wasn't one to be so emotional, but he also wasn't one to be cooped up like an animal. It made him feel on edge.

His old logical self began to take control after the strange woman left him alone with his thoughts. He collected himself slowly, put himself back together. He couldn't fight his way out of this. He resolved once again… to focus on healing. To focus on a solution. It seemed things were out of his hands at this point. He was still in control. Just… not in control of as much as he would have liked. God damn it.

If anything, though, Sky Masterson was an optimist. He was alive. He could only assume Sarah was okay. And… he was alive. Pretty good. Oh, and he was naked. He went ahead and considered that a plus, too. Why not?

It was about four hours later than his captor came back in with a set of clothes that she placed on the foot of the bed. Her gaze was unemotional and flat as she went to release his bonds.

"You have visitors. Get dressed," was all she said before she turned and left him alone.

It wasn't too long later that the sound of male voices hurried him through pulling on a set of navy trousers. The woman's voice was only a clipped soprano in the rumble of the two male timbres, adding to the creaking of the wooden floorboards a room away.

Then they came and he couldn't help the look that blossomed on his bruised face. Two police men. Of course, they weren't in uniform, but he knew cops when he saw them. These were cops. One was slightly round but tall and large like a wall, filling up the doorway as he passed through. The other one was average all over, cop eyes hard in a mediocre face.

The woman followed only until the door, and there she leaned.

The big guy nodded with a greeting, polite enough. Maybe not just simple cops. Then, it clicked.

Greggs wasn't a petty thief. Greggs was big time. Gambling, sure, but plenty of murder to go along with it. These guys were feds, and Sky knew they wanted to give him a run-down.

"Ramona, if you would give us a minute," Agent Average said. The woman, Ramona, just turned and left, shutting the door behind her.


End file.
